speakwrite

Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

In the cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over his speakwrite.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably meant death — still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the speakwrite.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

In the corresponding cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, dark-chinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

In so far as he had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards him.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

When the Hate was over he returned to his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his main job of the morning.

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left,

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008

Then he pulled the speakwrite towards him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the

Nineteen Eighty-four 2008